


Falling, Catching

by thisstarvingartist



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Eating out, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Porn With Plot, in which the Grandmaster is the gentle and giving lover I can only imagine Jeff Goldblum to be, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: “I notice that you’re a little—mm, a little bit tense,” the Grandmaster said. “I get the feeling that you—you’re not relaxing the way I asked you to. Won’t you at least, you know, try to enjoy yourself?”





	Falling, Catching

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be straight (for once), I'm not a huge avengers person, but boy howdy do I love Loki and Jeff Goldblum--so here we go.

Falling through the Bifrost was an experience akin to falling through a pane of glass and into an ocean of ice water. Sucked into a whirling universe moving too fast to catch any glimpse of safety, leaving far behind a rainbow plane. This was even worse than the Midgardian wizard’s endless fall trick, because now rather than dropping into a hollow void he was being tossed back and forth through twisting galaxies, narrowly missing whole planets and skinning his teeth on passing stars.

And then, the landing.

Loki made impact on the ground of a foreign planet, spat out of a gaping void like a broken tooth. He skidded across the ground for a good several feet before finally coming to a stop. Weakly, he sat upright, shaking dust from his cloak, and looked around. A mountainous junkyard of alien artifacts was all that was visible, clear through to the horizon, interrupted only in the far distance by a single high tower, miles off. In the sky, dozens of multicolored portals opened and closed, dropping objects intermittently across the plane, a cosmic dumping ground.

Several ships passed by overhead, either unconscious or apathetic to Loki’s presence on the ground. He sighed, rising to his feet, and prepared for a long trek through the wasteland.

\--

“Are you a fighter, or are you food?” Loki scowled at the gathering scavengers as they formed a slow, unsubtle circle around him.

“I prefer to think of myself as a mediate third party,” he replied, as his blades slowly slipped down from his sleeves.

“Food it is, then,” the speaker said, and the scavengers descended upon him, weapons flailing and clashing. The apparition flashed green and dissipated underneath the onslaught, leaving the group shocked and befuddled as they scrambled away from the sparkling remains.

There was a roar of an engine, and the leader of the pack whipped back to face their ship as it took off into the sky, leaving its former crew behind. The real Loki waved out at them from a port window until their figures faded and disappeared behind the piles of clutter, and he turned his attention back onto piloting the ship.

He had never piloted a ship of this kind before, so the ride to the tower was—to say the least—bumpy. He touched down (none too gently) a mile or so outside of the city limits. Crawling out from the relative wreckage and dusting himself off once more, he observed the lower sections of the expansive cityscape, all centered around a tower so large he had to crane his neck high just to see the top. Even large ships moved around rather than over it, its glittering and extravagant build.

Metal faces peered out from all sides, each one a strong-jawed, masculine bust. Clearly, none of them was the master of this land, Loki thought; even the carving of their faces made them too brutish, too simple minded to control such an expansive empire (and it _was_ expansive; from even the worm’s eye view Loki was afforded he could see the immensity of this place), and anyway, these were not status symbols as his statue in Asgard had been. No, these were trophies, put out on display for all the inhabitants of this planet to see.

Getting into the city was no massive task. He simply draped his cloak about him like a cowl and slithered in along with the crowd. The trick was finding a way into the tower itself. His master plan was, overall, simple: find himself in the king’s—or whatever ruler there was—good graces, make himself indispensable, and when the time was right, strike. The same plan, as always. Survive, execute, thrive. He was born for this, born for success. All he had to do was find a way to grasp it.

\--

Infiltration of the tower involved more minor planning—learn the pattern rotation of the guards, find a secluded area, create a small distraction. It was easy enough to take out one of the guards; a deft flick of the wrist and a poke to the base of the neck and he collapsed, gurgling, onto the ground. Loki gathered up his outer armor, put it on, glamoured the rest, and was rounding the corner and back in rotation with seconds to spare.

When he reached the tower’s entrance, he slipped in without acknowledgement, and disposed of his guise in a hidden corner before casting another minor illusion over himself. One of his old favorites: an enchantment that didn’t leave him invisible, but rather prevented him from being looked at directly. So long as he was swift and silent (and he was, of course, both) he would be appear as nothing more than a shadow in the corner of one’s eye, unassuming, inconsequential. Effectively the perfect agent for gathering information—and Loki was on a mission of reconnaissance.

He moved with haste down a crimson corridor until he reached a set of doors, and crouched beside them in wait. Soon enough, a pair of scantily clad, metallic-painted women entered the hall and moved to the doors, which opened to reveal a wide, glass elevator. _Perfect._

He slipped into the elevator alongside them, his presence not so much as triggering a glance, and in silence he was carried to the topmost floor of the tower, where the women and Loki quickly behind exited into a large, brightly lit room, occupied by a stern woman with a tight bun, and the single most decorated individual Loki had ever laid eyes on.

The figure was a man—he seemed to be a man, though the form he had taken almost bubbled at the surface with barely concealed magic—wrapped in thick, luscious robes and painted in gold and blue, his graying hair spiked upward theatrically, and a furrowed, almost confused brow set in his attractive, albeit aged, face. Loki could only assume that this was the man whom he sought out: the king of this realm.

Also in the room stood two massive, broad-shouldered guards, and a trembling figure seated in an obviously uncomfortable chair, arms and legs bound, his eyes shifting frantically between the king, and the orange-tipped staff held firmly in the fist of the woman beside him.

“Grandmaster, please, I beg of you, have mercy,” the man in the chair was pleading, his voice wobbling as he spoke. Loki tucked himself into a corner and settled, preparing for the display of ‘mercy’ that would befall the sorry creature before him.

The king—the _Grandmaster_ , apparently—made a face. “No, don’t—I don’t, I don’t like that, it’s very, uh. Very annoying. I hate it when people grovel. You know that, right, Topaz? I hate when people grovel.”

The woman beside him grunted in affirmation. “He does hate it.”

“I’m sorry, I—I’ll give you anything, Grandmaster, anything you want—”

“I, uh,” he sneered a little, unimpressed. “I already have—I _have_ _everything_. There’s really nothing, _nothing_ you have that I want.” He seemed to consider that for a moment. “Well, there is—there is one thing you can give me.”

“Yes, yes, anything,” the man nodded vigorously, leaning forward.

“Your life.” With that, the Grandmaster took the staff offered by the woman—Topaz—and stretched it out towards the man.

“No, _NO, PLEASE—_ ” the man screamed as before Loki’s eyes, he began to melt from the touch of the staff, blue and purple smoke billowing from him as his body liquefied. It was slow, and it was _gruesome_. After long minutes his screams were reduced to pained gurgles, until all that was left was a sizzling, dripping mess that oozed from the chair and onto the otherwise immaculate marble floor.

The Grandmaster made a face. “Ew, that was—that was really disgusting. Smells bad, too. Ugh, I hate that smell, I really do. But, hey, you gotta do what you gotta, uh, do. Y’know?” Loki looked up from the horrendous remains to see the Grandmaster staring straight at him.

Loki froze. Had his spell faded? He felt out for his magic; no, it was still in place. He should still be disguised from sight. Undetectable. But the Grandmaster was looking at him, his expression almost inquisitive, _almost_ not bored, and he tilted his head.

“Well?”

Loki’s jaw worked, open, then shut, and he found himself speechless. _Should_ he speak? If there was a chance the Grandmaster didn’t really see him—but no, he did, and now the guards could see him, and his enchantment flickered and went out and Loki was standing in a room full of hostiles, with a puddle of the Grandmaster’s last annoyance still bubbling at his feet.

\--

The way the Grandmaster’s eyes raked up and down his body made Loki feel, even while fully clothed, naked. He clenched his hands into fists on his lap and mourned how just that morning he had been drinking wine and entertaining Asgard’s elite with tales of his heroism, and now he was on his knees at the sandaled feet of the gaudiest, most peculiar being he had ever laid eyes on, awaiting the decision of his fate.

There were a few options, Loki thought, as the Grandmaster regarded him in his sorry state with one leg crossed over the other and fingers tapping thoughtfully on his blue-striped chin. Option one: he would kill him on the spot. Not an ideal scenario, to be sure. Having borne witness, within minutes of his arrival, to the awesome power of the Grandmaster’s staff, he anticipated that the Grandmaster wasn’t renowned for his restraint. Death was most definitely on the table.

Option two: Loki would be enslaved for menial work in the Grandmaster’s ranks, lost from his sight and from his mind, a miniscule note on the day’s long list of business matters. Reduced to a faceless commodity. Loki found this potentiality… distasteful. It did, however, leave room for him to wriggle his way out from under the Grandmaster’s thumb and escape into the wilds of this new planet, and find a life in relative obscurity. Away from danger, but away too from the power he so intensely craved. He was a prince, after all, a god; he was built to rule, not to wallow. But he would take exile easily over the alternative of being boiled into a puddle of goo.

Option three centered around the unreadable expression on the Grandmaster’s face as he sat in silence, pondering the Asgardian prince. Loki hoped that it was interest, in any form. Curiosity was, in this situation, an ally.

“That was, uh—I have to say, that was pretty impressive, getting all the way up here without, without alerting my guards,” the Grandmaster said. “I’ll have to, hm, have to look into that. It shouldn’t be so easy, getting in here.”

Loki didn’t speak. The Grandmaster continued to observe him in silence for another minute.

“Well…?” the Grandmaster finally pressed.

“…well, what?” Loki asked.

“Aren’t you going to—to beg for your life?” He asked, apparently baffled.

Loki glanced down at the still present puddle of what once had been a man, uncomfortably close to where he was knelt on the floor. “I seem to recall you mentioning that you hate it when people grovel.”

“Oh, I mean I—I do,” the Grandmaster agreed. “It’s just… people usually do it anyway.”

Loki returned, resolutely, to silence. There were some cases in which his pride outweighed his survival instincts, and this was one of those times. Particularly because he knew that begging would get him nowhere—he would not kiss the feet of a man who intended to kill him regardless.

“Well, that’s… interesting. He’s interesting, isn’t he, Topaz? I mean I’ve never—well, I’ve never seen anything that’s like, that’s quite like this,” the Grandmaster gestured at Loki. “And I mean it looks—well he _does_ look—very nice, doesn’t he?” The Grandmaster slid back slightly in his chair, still eyeing him. “ _Very_ nice. Just, uh—just what are you?”

And _that_ was exactly the opening he had been hoping for. Loki put on a smile. “What do you want me to be?”

Finally, the Grandmaster’s lips curled and broke into a wide smile.

\--

“My room is usually a little more, ah, _crowded_ , than this,” the Grandmaster said, as they stepped into his chambers. The room was expansive, drowned in luxurious gold and red tapestries and silks. Half a dozen couches and autumns were dotted across the polished marble floor, with plush pillows strewn over them all. It was the most obscenely over-the-top room Loki had seen in the tower thus far, and he found himself slightly in awe of it. He tamped down the desire to splay himself across the furniture and saturate himself in the extravagance—this Grandmaster really knew how to live.

“I have to tell you, I—hm, uh—it’s been a while since I was, since I was alone with someone—” the Grandmaster let out a breathy laugh that ran its way up and back down Loki’s spine like a wave.

He turned his head when the Grandmaster gingerly ran his fingers over Loki’s arm. “Am I really so special?”

“Oh, you’re, uh—you certainly are special,” the Grandmaster replied, the sharpness of his smile evident just in his voice. “I wanted to try you, hm, try you out, just the two of us.”

 _Try me out._ Loki had done a lot of things in his life to keep himself alive—a lot. But this… _Well, I’d better be sure to impress._ Loki licked his chapped lips, and his fingers twitched. “You honor me, Grandmaster.”

There was another sigh disguised as a laugh, this time directly against the side of his neck. “Well I—I suppose you could consider this a—an honor. Turn around, please.”

Loki did as he was told, and found himself eye-to-eye with the Grandmaster. He found himself caught in the lusty haze of those pale blue irises, and disregarded the slow tightening of his chest. Instead, he ran his fingers gently over the loose fabric of the Grandmaster’s robe, nimbly slipping past the layers to reach feverish warm skin.

“Ah—mm, that’s a good start,” the Grandmaster hummed, tugging at Loki’s sleeve until the shoulder of the robe gifted to him slipped over and fell low on his arm. Loki took the hint and shed the top completely, leaving it to hang over his hips. The Grandmaster hummed again, running his hands over Loki’s chest until he reached his shoulders.

Loki swallowed. _Now or never_ , he thought, and let his knees buckle under him. The Grandmaster’s hands left his shoulders to run through his slick hair, gently tipping his head upwards. Loki looked up at him, putting on an open and wanton face. The Grandmaster merely smiled down at him; it was an unusual look—soft. Almost fond.

“Oh, that’s—that’s good,” the Grandmaster said, but caught Loki’s jaw as he moved closer and tilted it upward. “For later, maybe.”

Loki’s face screwed itself up in confusion, before he hurriedly smoothed it back down. The Grandmaster guided him back to his feet and… took his hand. Loki found himself being led to the massive bed in the center of the room— _ah, of course_ —and placed Loki gently on its edge, facing outward.

He prepared himself to be thrown down onto the silken sheets, tried to internalize the emerging alarm in the back of his mind, until he was face to face once more with the Grandmaster, who knelt before him. He took Loki’s head in his hands, thumbs brushing against his cheeks, and pulled him in.

The soft noise of surprise Loki made was muffled by the kiss the Grandmaster pressed against his lips. Chaste and careful, as if he were made of glass. When the Grandmaster released him, he sat back on his hands, eyeing him carefully.

“I—ah, I have a certain plan for, for the evening,” the Grandmaster informed him, that strange smile still playing on his face. Loki braced for the worst, as the Grandmaster’s hands settled on his thighs, spreading his legs gently. “But like I said, it’s been, uh, a while since I was a—alone with anyone, so just. You know. Tell me, if I need to stop.”

Then the Grandmaster hiked Loki’s robes up over his hips to expose him to the room.

“Hm,” the Grandmaster purred, reaching underneath and running a thumb over the slight part between Loki’s legs. Loki shivered. “Not what I expected.”

“I can—I can change that if you—” Loki began, but was cut off by his own sharp intake of breath as the Grandmaster edged further inside, probing.

“ _Can_ you?” the Grandmaster said, looking curiously up at him. “No, I, I like this—but I’ll keep that in mind for later.”

He retracted his hand and rose to his feet. Loki moved to stand with him, but was stopped by the Grandmaster’s hand on his chest. “No, no—stay there, relax. I’ll be right back. Would you like a drink?”

Loki accepted the offered drink, a semi-transparent elixir of sparkling amber, and watched the Grandmaster kneel between his legs again with his own glass—bright purple in a thin fluted glass. He took a cautious sip.

“I’d like to, ah, eat you out, if that’s alright,” the Grandmaster said casually, and Loki choked.

“ _What_?”

“I’d really like to, uh, pay my respects,” the Grandmaster murmured, reaching under his robes again, and Loki shuddered at the feather-light touch. “You have the—the most exquisite body, you know. I’d _really_ like to taste you. Is that okay?”

“You… yes, of course,” Loki said, trying to control his mounting confusion. “I just assumed you… you’d want me to—”

“Eventually, sure,” the Grandmaster waved the comment off, putting his glass to the side. “You can keep drinking that, no problem. Mind if I…?”

His fingers were still moving. “By all means,” he said.

He took a shaky drink as the Grandmaster poked and prodded, curious but clever, his fingers soft and growing damp with the wetness that leaked between Loki’s folds. His arms were shaking. He hadn’t prepared himself at all for this sort of attention.

“You’re sensitive,” the Grandmaster said, almost to himself, but Loki made a small noise of affirmation. The Grandmaster looked up at him, smiling cheerfully. “I’ll be gentle.”

And with that, he ducked his head under Loki’s robes and parted Loki’s lips with his own. Loki gasped, jerking in the Grandmaster’s grip. He barely kept a grasp on his drink as the Grandmaster dipped into him with fingers and tongue, lapping up the growing slick that moistens his fingertips. It took everything Loki had to keep himself quiet, to not move against the Grandmaster’s roving tongue. When he licked against a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves Loki couldn’t help a frantic thrust forward. The Grandmaster, beneath him, made a delighted noise, and poked his head up.

“Everything all, ah, all good, up there?”

“Ye-es,” Loki said unsteadily, as the Grandmaster’s fingers continued to slide into him.

“Mind if—mind if I continue?” the Grandmaster asked, and Loki, biting the inside of his cheek, shook his head.

He disappeared again, and Loki tried desperately not to make a sound, his every muscle tightly wound. The Grandmaster stopped again, and Loki found himself both relieved and incredibly frustrated.

“I notice that you’re a little—mm, a little bit tense,” the Grandmaster said. “I get the feeling that you--you’re not relaxing the way I asked you to. Won’t you at least, you know, _try_ to enjoy yourself?”

“Grandmaster, I—ah,” he panted, realized that he was still holding the glass of liquor in his trembling hand. He looked at it, then back at the Grandmaster, who was sitting between his legs with an expectant look, the blue stripe on his lower lip smeared.

 _…Fuck it._ With a low growl, Loki threw back the rest of his drink, handing the now empty glass to the delighted Grandmaster, who set it on the floor beside his own.

“Good, very good,” he said, as he descended upon Loki once more. This time, for the first time since he arrived in the tower, Loki did what the Grandmaster asked—he relaxed. He collapsed backwards onto the bed and grabbed fistfuls of the sheets, letting his hips roll up into the Grandmaster’s touch. He didn’t try to stop the plaintive noises that poured from his mouth, and when he sat up again it was to curl his fingers into the Grandmaster’s silver hair and grip tightly as he came, the Grandmaster’s mouth against him, his fingers inside him.

He writhed when the Grandmaster doesn’t release him the first time, but continued lapping at him as he pulsed out, until he shuddered and came again. When the Grandmaster finally sat up and crawled onto the bed, Loki felt utterly boneless, panting and wrecked.

“How are you feeling, stardust?” the Grandmaster asked, brushing a loose strand of Loki’s hair out of his eyes.

Loki smiled. “Relaxed.”

“ _That’s_ what I like to hear.”

\--

He falls, again, he falls.

When Loki woke, he was sweat-drenched and gasping, clutching at the sheets beneath him. His head swam from the descent of his dream, the rapid and endless tumble into nothingness. He couldn’t find purchase on the sleek silk covers, and the fabric slid from his fingers, thrusting him further into panic.

“Hey now, hey now,” mumbled a voice, low and close against his ear, and he became suddenly aware of a heavy, warm weight across his chest, pulling him in. He grabbed at it, kept it secure against himself, and curled into the heat pressing against his side.

The voice, still soft and gentle, murmured reassurances as a hand stroked gently up and down his back. “Just breathe. Just breathe, stardust.”

In minutes Loki regained control of his frantic mind, though he struggled to stifle the trembling of his body despite his best efforts. He reminded himself of where he was—in the Grandmaster’s chambers, held tightly in his arms, the room quiet and breathless.

After moments of peace, Loki peered up at the Grandmaster, who looked back at him with wide, startled eyes.

“That was, ah—that was something,” the Grandmaster said, before wrinkling his nose. “That was _unpleasant_.”

Loki flinched. His first night alone with the Grandmaster, and _this_ was his downfall, his own treacherous subconscious. He had ruined the evening, and quite effectively his relationship with the Grandmaster entirely.

He wondered, briefly, what would become of him; would he be cast from the tower like waste, or thrown into the fighting pits to squeeze out the last bit of entertainment he could offer? That was the best-case scenario, really. Worst case, he would be melted with haste, as soon as Topaz and the guards arrived to rectify this egregious mistake. The Grandmaster’s hand was still rubbing his back, a soothing contrast to his mounting panic.

“Grandmaster, I—”

“I—it really was, ah, that was really bad,” he said, interrupting Loki. “Does that happen _every night?_ ”

“No, no this was—forgive me, I assure you, this will never happen agai—”

The Grandmaster interrupted him again, before he had the chance to finish. “Woah, wait, you don’t think… You don’t think I’m, I’m angry, do you?” The hand on his back stilled. “Stardust, I—I’m just worried about you.”

“…worried,” Loki repeated, feeling dazed.

“Well, of course. Your—your happiness is something I think is, well, important,” he said, and he traced fingers lightly down Loki’s jaw, cupped his chin. “I don’t think I want… I’d much rather not see you unhappy if I can help it.”

His eyes were bright in the dark room, and Loki stared into them, speechless. Without thinking, he leaned forward, pressed his lips to the Grandmaster’s mouth. He caught the soft exhale he released and conceded to the Grandmaster’s arms pulling him in, holding him close. He raised his hand, buried it in soft grey hair.

The Grandmaster’s hand roved down his side, lifted his thigh and pulled it over his hips. Firm warmth pressed against the inside of his parted legs, and Loki whined, his hips jerking forward. He opened his mouth, pulled at the Grandmaster’s lip with his teeth, and let out a gasp as he was rolled onto his back, pinned down beneath heavy, secure heat.

The Grandmaster released his lips, pressed their foreheads together as he rolled his hips, slow, gentle, hitting _there, oh, Fuck_ , Loki panted, fisted the blankets over them. “Please, Grandmas—”

“Yes, yes,” He whispered, lined them up, pushed in. Loki was so slick, he opened to it so easily. And, _ah_ , it felt _perfect, perfect, it’s perfect, he’s Perfect._ He came with the taste of moonlight on his lips, relented to the firm and gentle grip of this being, impossible, improbable, ethereal, whispering affections in languages so sweet and foreign they sounded like song.


End file.
